


The Secret Dress

by GlitterSkullFairy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Changing Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Spouses, Marriage Proposal, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Post-Apocanot, Romantic Fluff, Wedding Dress, Wedding Planning (in a sense), non-sexual romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22066654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterSkullFairy/pseuds/GlitterSkullFairy
Summary: The dress was perfect, one of the last to be made in the Rococo style before the fashions changed.Crowley had found herself dreaming it up in the days after Paris, and brought the designs to a dressmaker on a whim.  They had understood the intention completely, and discreetly took measurements and fulfilled the order with a knowing smile.  It had stayed hidden away in a wooden chest for over two centuries, except for those occasions when she felt the urge to get it out and pretend that impossible things were meant to be.In which Crowley plays with her secret wedding dress and gets caught.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 175





	The Secret Dress

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago, the passing thought of Crowley in a wedding dress got stuck in my head. This got half-written and then left sitting for a while, but I finally finished it.  
> Happy New Year everyone! Hope the next decade is Ineffable.
> 
> Thank you, FluffyGlitterPantsDragon, for reading everything I throw at you, even if it's just to say, "Yeah, I like it." <3

The world continued to spin past its schedule, first days and then weeks and then months. Londoners walked quickly through the cold winter air, escaping its bite in the shops and cafes, cupping mugs of coffee or cocoa in both hands. Normally Aziraphale would be tempted to pop in for a quick one, possibly with a custard slice or an almond croissant, but today there was somewhere else he wanted to be. He realised that he had been expecting Crowley to pay him a visit for over a week, because that's what he'd been doing regularly since that night on the bus from Tadfield, but the demon seemed to be dithering about it.

It wasn't as though they had set any appointments, but it turned out that whenever Aziraphale found himself at a loose end, there would be that familiar waft of evil and a voice muttering about boredom and what exactly was a demon supposed to do now that he was no longer in service to the bosses downstairs? Clearly, the answer to that question was repeatedly interrupt an angel who was trying to catch up on some reading now that he was free from the influence of the heavenly spheres.

Not that he minded. He found he rather enjoyed the company, and it turned out Crowley was good at keeping up with the latest entertainments, whether it was an art exhibition, or a recital, or a new production of an old play. 

One evening they didn't go out at all, but sat chatting and reminiscing in the bookshop, with several bottles of good wine. It was extremely fun, right up until the point that Crowley threw his sunglasses on the coffee table and bemoaned his existence once more. 

"I mean, wha's the point? Really? Apart from going around indulging m'self. We persuade management not to 'bliterate the world, we ssssurvive our own exe-cu-tion," he pronounced the word very deliberately so as not to stumble over it, "and now what? No one's even checking if I'm even causing mayhem any more. What's a demon to doooo?"

"You enjoy yourself my dear. You relax, like we've both been doing. Heaven knows we've earned it."

"Do they though? Heaven would rather you were dead. And I might as well be a walking corpse for all the meaning of my current existexisence."

"You had meaning before?"

"Yesssss! It was hard work but I had a purpose. Temptation. Causing trouble. Staying out of trouble. Sometimes just getting through the next decade."

"You could still tempt me, if that makes you feel better," Aziraphale offered.

Crowley, whose top half was currently draped over the end of the sofa, grimaced at him. "Oh don't- don't start that again."

"Start what again?"

"You with your… pffffft…" he flapped his hand. "All virtuous and perfek- perfectly flawed."

"Now you're just being a ninny. Perhaps we ought to sober up."

"No. Don't want to. Happy as I am."

"You don't sound happy."

"I'm happy being miserable. 'S ‘proprate. 'Ssss fitting." He sighed dramatically and looked at him with wide, soulful eyes. It was enough to break the angel's heart. 

He didn't understand what Crowley wanted. None of what he was saying made sense. The last few months had been incredible, spending time together without the constant fear of discovery in the background. He thought the purpose of both their lives was utterly clear, and that was simply to be there for each other, and find happiness together. If that wasn't enough for Crowley, then perhaps it was time to rethink their… Arrangement. 

The thought brought tears to his eyes, and he was drunk enough that they spilled out before he could stop them. He wiped his cheeks and stood up. "There's another bottle out the back. If we're not getting sober, I need a top up."

"I've upset you," Crowley frowned.

"No, it's fine. I'm just… um… back in a jiffy." He trotted into the back room and closed the door. What if he was wrong? What if, after all this time, he wasn't what Crowley needed? He breathed out a short sob, and tried to hold in the rest of it. Now who's being a ninny, he asked himself. Of course they would stay together, anything else was simply unthinkable. They needed each other now, more than ever.

He grabbed the nearest bottle and returned to the shop, just in time to hear the bell chime on the front door. Crowley was gone.

Aziraphale left a message on his answerphone the next morning, suggesting some kind of rendezvous, but there was no reply, even after a few days. It didn't matter. He was sure Crowley would turn up at some point. Another week went by, and he still didn't, the angel decided that there was nothing stopping him from visiting Crowley at his flat, so he put on his coat and walked at a brisk pace to fend off the chill.

Crowley didn't answer the door so he let himself in.

***

It wasn't just about the dress, Crowley mused as she ran her hands over the shot silk, it was about becoming. 

The demon always enjoyed clothes. They were marvellous creations. Something that should have just been functional had become a gold mine for vanity, self-indulgence, and greed. Clothes were a way for the wealthy to boast their riches, and show off their status. They could create resentment and jealousy for masses who would never be able to afford the height of fashion, and the opportunity for fakes and fraudsters to take advantage and steal from the desperate.

As a demon, Crowley very much approved of fashion.

As a person, she was genuinely impressed by the artistry that went into extravagant garments. And the skill- to imagine the way a tailcoat should hang, or a skirt should flow, and to make that image into a reality was a feat of engineering. The weave of the fabric itself was enough to wonder at. The way this particular one reflected the light so that one moment it appeared black and the next it was deep red, was mesmerising. Add to that the amount of work that went into the details- layers of hand-stitched lace that cascaded over her forearms, tiny rubies embroidered into the front of the bodice, silver threads swirling up from the hem in a pattern that matched the snake mark on her cheek. 

The dress was perfect, one of the last to be made in the Rococo style before the fashions changed. It was decadent, but not extreme; the panniers were relatively small, the skirt fell in a smooth line without all those extra tiers of ruffles, and she could move in it without having to perform a miracle every other step.

Beneath the dress she was stockinged and cross-gartered, with delicate undergarments and a corset that made her grateful that she didn't actually require oxygen. It did fantastic things to her waistline though. She wore her hair long, with the curls loosely up, and covered with a sheer black veil decorated with a few more tiny rubies.

Crowley had found herself dreaming it up in the days after Paris, and brought the designs to a dressmaker on a whim. They had understood the intention completely, and discreetly took measurements and fulfilled the order with a knowing smile. It had stayed hidden away in a wooden chest for over two centuries, except for those occasions when she felt the urge to get it out and pretend that impossible things were meant to be. 

She stood, one hand resting on the back of her throne, and gazed at her reflection in the blank television. She posed this way and that, at first pretending to look demure and bashful, but she soon got bored of that and angled her back and arms as she might for the cover of Vogue.

She almost missed the first knock on the door, but then it came again. _What? Who on earth would be-_

“Crowley? Are you there?”

 _Fanny farts and piss buckets! No!_ She bared her teeth in a grimace and grabbed at the layers of skirt fruitlessly. There was only one thing for it. With a snap of her fingers the dress and veil were heaped on the table and he was back in his black shirt and tight jeans. Luckily they weren’t so form fitting as to show the lines of his garters, and with his shirt untucked it hid the corset. He pulled his tasselled necklace straight and dashed through the doorway, pushing it shut behind his back.

Aziraphale stood in the hallway, surrounded by greenery, and for a moment Crowley was back in the Garden.

“Angel? What are you doing here?” His voice sounded cross, but he couldn’t help it. He was too perturbed by the concept of Aziraphale here, in his flat, especially so soon after they’d had a disagreement. Aziraphale _never_ came looking for him. At least, not until the last century.

“I um… a book! I leant you a book, and someone was asking about it, and I wondered if I might borrow it back, just to check a detail or two, on the uh… Do you still have it?”

“...The poetry?”

“Yes! That’s the one.”

“Yes, it’s in the… um…” _Study._ He started pointing to the door behind him, and then twisted and flexed his fingers dramatically in an attempt to cover it. “Do you know, I’m not sure.”

Aziraphale smiled and bounced on his toes a bit too enthusiastically. “Perhaps we should look for it. Shouldn’t be too hard. It’s not as if you have a lot of clutter to go through. Not like my place, that would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Or perhaps a needle in a pile of other needles, what with all the other books…” he trailed off and cleared his throat. 

“I wouldn’t want to put you out. Perhaps I should just have a look later and give you a bell when I find it, hey?”

“Oh,” he seemed to deflate, and it tore at Crowley’s heart, but this was not the right time. The dress needed to be put away very carefully, each item folded and packed with reverence, the gown itself the last to be returned to the chest in a quiet ritual so that he didn’t utterly fall to pieces about the whole situation.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to want to give up though. He lifted his Gladstone bag. “I brought wine.”

“Hnnnngh,” Crowley squeaked. “Another time? It’s just, you show up, unannounced, and it’s not really convenient, you see-”

“Oh! _Oh!_ I see, you have company. Hence the-” he twirled a finger by the side of his face. “I think it’s rather pretty, by the way.”

 _Bollocks, I forgot the hair!_ Crowley tugged at the loose strands, but there was little point trying to do anything about it now.

“Right. Well, I won’t keep you.” He stiffened and started back towards the door.

“Angel!” Crowley called after him, suddenly fearful that if he left, he’d never see him again. Aziraphale turned back. “There’s no one here. Just us.”

He stepped slowly back, his face lowered, and came to stand directly in front of Crowley. “I don’t care about the book. I’m here because you haven’t come over in almost two weeks and I don’t know why. Or maybe because I do know why, and I had concerns which are obviously unfounded because you’re perfectly happy doing whatever it is you were doing on your own.” He looked up. “What _were_ you doing?”

“I was, er…” his sentence rapidly disintegrated into a string of vowels and consonants in no particular order. “...Thing,” he finished lamely.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. It was the sort of look that would have been much more effective if he’d been wearing his glasses and could look over the top of them.

“Crowley, my dear, are you hiding something?”

“Nnnnope!” He popped the “p” just a little too loudly, and it made Aziraphale suspicious.

The problem with revolving doors is that, unlike regular doors, standing in front of them is not a very effective way of barring them. Aziraphale raised a hand over Crowley’s shoulder, and pushed. His eyes instantly fixed on the pile of fabric on the desk. Crowley was too busy wishing for a bucket of holy water to dive into that he couldn’t stop him from striding into the room and reaching to touch the fine silk. He stood frozen in the doorway, and watched as his angel carefully picked up the dress as if carrying a fair maiden, and laid it gently back on the table, straightening it out and admiring each detail in turn.

“Who was she?” he asked softly.

“What?” Crowley shook his head, confused.

“The Lady who wore this dress. She must have been very important to you for you to have kept it all this time. And in such fine condition too. It’s barely been worn, though the fabric is old.”

“There was no Lady.”

“Then why do you have it?”

“It’s mine.”

Aziraphale looked from the dress back to his friend. “Oh! The hair, of course. I imagine you look quite stunning. If it’s yours, then why hide it? Why haven’t I seen you in it?”

Crowley took a few steps closer. He was already damned, how much worse could it get? “You’re not supposed to. They say it’s bad luck.”

A crease appeared in Aziraphale’s brow. “That’s nonsense, we both know there’s no such thing as luck.”

“It’s traditional.”

“I don’t understand.”

Crowley pulled out the veil from where it was hidden, tangled in all the layers of the gown. He draped it over his hand and held it up. He felt like he was offering up his very heart. “It’s wedding dress.”

Aziraphale looked up at him with beautiful, wide eyes. His mouth twitched a little at the corners. “Who were you going to marry?”

“Nnnngk!” Crowley tensed so hard he was quivering. His lips pulled into a thin line and he almost threw the blessed thing at Aziraphale. He slammed it on the table instead. It didn’t help. He grabbed the bag from the floor, snapped it open, and took out the wine. For lack of a corkscrew, he manifested a pair of long fangs, sank one of them into cork, tugged and spat it across the room. He chugged down about a quarter of the bottle before he had calmed down enough to speak. It was pure self-sabotage at this point, but he didn’t care. The pressure of everything that had happened since he was handed that infernal basket had built up into a seething mass of magma in his gut, and Aziraphale was still standing there, _touching the wedding dress_ and gaping at him like an imbecile and if he was going to erupt, he might as well blow his lid in a truly spectacular fashion. “Six thousand years! Six _thousand_ years, Angel. That’s how long I’ve been banging my head against the brick wall that is your thick skull. Six millennia of following you around, waiting for you to notice. Teasing you, tempting you, coming to the rescue. Hell, we faced the wrath of Lucifer himself together! I gave you the World!” He paced around the room, waving his arms in grand gestures. “I have tried to give you everything you could possibly desire, be whatever you wanted me to be, and it’s never enough! I’ve tried being subtle, I’ve tried being blatantly obvious, and quite frankly, I’m running out of ways to tell you that the only thing that matters to me, in this whole bloody universe, is you!”

Aziraphale stepped up to him, a seething mess of suppressed energy bundled up tightly in a frock coat and tartan bowtie, and snatched back the bottle of wine. “That’s good stuff, and you’re spilling it,” he complained.

Crowley wanted to shriek. So he did.

Even that didn’t break through Aziraphale’s stoic composure, although he did put the bottle to his lips and take an exceptionally long draught.

Crowley stared at him, waiting for him to speak, waiting to be told he was nothing more than a vile demon and for the angel to walk out of his life forever.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I shall need a new suit.”

“You what?”

“A new suit, my dear. I can’t very well wear this old thing to the ceremony. Oh my, what should do for the ceremony? We can’t exactly get married in a church. If you don’t mind waiting for the summer, we could have an outdoor wedding, I suppose, but the British weather is so unpredictable.”

“Aahg… I… mlrgrg… nnnngk?”

“Come now, don’t be so dramatic. Clearly you’ve been so busy making puppy dog eyes at me that you haven’t noticed I’m in exactly the same boat. Although if it’s any consolation it took me a good deal longer to work out what was going on and longer still to accept it as a viable option.”

“Viable…? This isn't some contract cooked up by Head Office we’re talking about here, Angel.”

“No.”

“I’ve got… _feelings.”_ He said the word with obvious distaste.

“So I see.” He took another drink. “Well, so have I.”

Crowley pupils widened. He snatched back the bottle for himself and took another long pull on it. There wasn’t much left. “And what do you think we should do about that, precisely?”

“Honestly? I haven’t the foggiest idea. All I know is that I’ve missed you since you stopped dropping by, and I would be a lot happier if I knew that you were always going to be there.” He took the bottle from Crowley’s limp hand and finished off the last of the wine. Then, he bent one knee to the floor and looked up. “So. Anthony J. Crowley, will you marry me? Will you promise me that you’ll be mine, and I’ll be yours, forever and ever?”

Crowley fell to his knees in front of him and grabbed the angel’s face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. “Yes. _Yes,_ you blithering idiot, I’m already yours.”

Aziraphale gave a strangled whimper and flung his arms around Crowley, burying his face into his neck. This was it, this was where he belonged, and neither Heaven nor Hell would ever part them again. 

After about an hour, Aziraphale finally loosened his grip, and Crowley pulled back and smiled at him with huge, golden eyes. “Well I don’t know about you, but I feel the need to get disgustingly drunk.”

“That sounds like a superb idea. But I think we should put your beautiful gown away first. Keep it nice for the wedding.”

“Yes, ahhh, about that…”

“What is it?”

“It’s not just the dress. I’m still wearing the undergarments. Look.”

He took Aziraphale’s hand and held it to his waist. The Angel gasped as he felt the stiff, smooth curve of the corset, and pulled his hand away quickly. “Crowley!” 

The demon chuckled. “Are you getting all hot and bothered at the thought of my _undergarments?”_ he teased.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’ve _been_ you in your smalls.”

“Then why are you pulling your hand away?”

“It’s just all rather intimate. It might take some getting used to.”

“That’s okay. We’ve got all the time in the World.”

“Go and put your dress and your… _things_ away. We’ll go back to my place and have some more wine and plan our wedding.”

“You won’t remember a single thing come the morning.”

“Then I’ll make notes. I may even dot the i’s with little hearts,” he giggled.

Crowley stood and bent to kiss the top of his head before he went to the other room. “If you start getting all soppy, I may yet come to regret this.”

“No you won’t. You’ve wanted me for the entire history of the World, and inside I suspect you’re feeling just as soft and squishy as I am.”

Crowley just growled, cradled the gown in her arms, and sauntered off.


End file.
